Code Blue

I'm twenty years old now, but I was only four when my parents brought me to North Korea.

I don't remember much about South Korea. Most of my memories are from the train ride that took us away from it. All I remember was how cold it was that day.

The windows rattled every time the train moved, and I remember sitting beside my mum, holding her hand while she tried to keep me warm.

Dad sat across from us, looking out the window. Every now and then, he'd look over and give me a small smile, but he barely spoke. None of us did.

There were soldiers walking through the train, checking papers and watching everyone. Even at four years old, I knew something wasn't right. Mum kept pulling me closer whenever one of them passed.

When we finally arrived, we were ordered off the train and told to stand in line. The soldiers searched our bags, checked our documents, and stamped our papers with a red seal.

I didn't understand what any of it meant. I just wanted to go home. We were collecting our luggage when someone called my father's name. "Han." Dad turned around.

Two soldiers approached him, and one of them pointed towards a building near the station. "You need to come with us."

Dad glanced at Mum before looking back at the soldiers. "May I ask why?"

"Questioning." That was all they said.

Mum immediately stepped forward. "Questioning? About what? He's a doctor. We were told-"

"Step back." One of the soldiers moved his rifle slightly.

Mum stopped talking. Dad knelt in front of me and fixed the collar of my coat. "Be good for your mother, okay?"

"Where are you going?"

"I'll be back soon." He said as he kissed my forehead, stood up, and followed the soldiers. I watched him disappear through the doors.

I didn't see him again for two months. Those first two months were probably the hardest for Mum.

We had very little money, and the apartment we were given was small and damp. There was one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom that barely worked.

Mum tried her best to make it feel like home. She hung our clothes near the window, cleaned the floors, and folded our blankets every morning. But we didn't have enough food.

One morning, I woke up and found her sitting at the kitchen table, holding her diamond earrings. Dad had given them to her for their anniversary.

She wore them almost every day. "Mummy?"

She looked up and smiled. "Good morning, sweetheart."

"Why are you taking your earrings off?"

"I'm just putting them away."

I believed her. Later that day, she took the diamond hairpiece my grandmother had given me for Christmas. It was my favourite. I used to call it my lucky hairpiece. "Why do you need that?" I asked.

Mum crouched in front of me. "Lena, sweetheart, we need to buy some food."

"But Grandma gave me that."

"I know, baby."

"Can I have it back later?"

She hesitated. Then she brushed my hair away from my face. "I'll get you another one someday. I promise."

She left with the earrings and my hairpiece. When she came home, she had a bag of rice and some potatoes. I never saw either piece of jewellery again.

Most evenings, Mum sat beside the window waiting for Dad. Whenever footsteps passed our apartment, she'd look towards the door. Sometimes she got up to check. It was never him.

At night, I slept beside her on the floor because the bedroom was too cold. I often woke up and found her still sitting by the window.

Then, after two months, Dad finally came home.

I remember running towards him so quickly that I nearly knocked him over. "Daddy!"

He picked me up and held me against his chest.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and refused to let go.

He looked thinner than before. His face was tired, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

Mum asked him what had happened. He wouldn't tell us. All he said was that he'd been assigned to work at the People's Medical Centre. He was a doctor, after all.

At the time, I thought that meant everything would go back to normal. I was wrong.

By the time I was five, I was already spending time at the hospital. Dad sometimes brought me along when he had long shifts. He'd give me small jobs to keep me busy, like carrying bandages or organising supplies in his office.

At six, I learned how to clean his surgical instruments.

I'd stand beside a metal basin, scrubbing blood from forceps and scalpels until my fingers hurt.

Sometimes, the smell stayed on my hands even after I washed them. I didn't complain. I liked helping Dad. He was always so busy, and those little jobs meant I could spend more time with him.

When I was eight, Mum got sick. It started with a cough. Nothing serious, or so we thought. Then she developed a fever.

At first, Dad gave her whatever medicine he could find. When that didn't work, he started buying antibiotics from the black market. Medicine was difficult to get unless you were important or had enough money to pay for it.

Dad worked extra shifts, sometimes coming home when it was already morning. I remember watching him count our money at the kitchen table. He'd count it once, then again, as if the amount might somehow change.

Mum kept telling him she was fine. She wasn't. Her coughing got worse, and soon she could barely get out of bed.

I brought her water and helped change the cloth on her forehead. Whenever I asked if she was getting better, she'd smile. "Of course, sweetheart." I wanted to believe her.

One morning, I woke up and found Dad sitting beside her. He wasn't moving. Mum was lying beneath a thin sheet. I walked towards the bed. "Dad?" He didn't answer.

"Mummy?" She didn't answer.

I reached for her hand. It was cold. Dad pulled me into his arms before I could ask another question. That was the first time I'd ever seen him cry. My mother died when I was eight years old.

After that, Dad didn't want me staying home alone. He started bringing me to the hospital every day. I spent most of my childhood inside the People's Medical Centre.

While other children were attending school and playing outside, I was helping carry supplies, cleaning surgical instruments, and watching my father work whenever I was allowed.

At first, I just stood quietly in the corner. Then I started asking questions. "Why did you use that one?"

"Because I need to stop the bleeding."

"Why didn't you cut there instead?"

"Because there's an artery there, Lena."

I'd nod and keep watching. Eventually, I stopped needing to ask so many questions. I'd seen him perform the same procedures so often that I already knew what he was going to do next. Dad noticed.

He started explaining things to me while he worked, pointing out different organs and teaching me the names of instruments. He gave me old medical textbooks to read during his shifts. I read every single one. Some pages were missing, others were stained, but I didn't care.

I loved learning about the human body. I loved finding out how everything worked. I didn't realise how strange that was for a child my age. To me, the hospital was normal. So were the bloodstained floors, broken equipment, and soldiers standing outside certain rooms. I'd grown up around them. I knew when to speak and when to keep my mouth shut. And in North Korea, that was something you learned very quickly.

I was eleven when Director Choi Jin-seok first approached me. He was the director of the People's Medical Centre. Everyone knew who he was. Even my dad seemed nervous whenever he entered a room.

I was sitting in one of the smaller treatment rooms, sorting through a box of gauze, when the door opened. Director Choi walked in with two guards. "Lena."

I immediately stood up. "Yes, Director?"

He stepped aside. The guards dragged a man into the room. His clothes were dirty, and his hands were tied together. There was a torn red armband around his sleeve. I recognised what it meant. He'd once served the state. But not anymore. "Tonight, you'll be operating on him," Director Choi said.

I looked at the man. Then back at him. "Me?"

"Yes."

"But my father isn't here." I shook my head.

"Your father is busy."

Dad was in the main operating theatre, performing abdominal surgery on an important official. He wouldn't be finished for hours.

Director Choi looked towards the guards. "This man is your first test subject."

I'd heard that term before. Test subject. It was what they called people who had been declared enemies of the state. Traitors, spies, or anyone accused of crimes against the government. Most of them weren't expected to leave the hospital alive.

I stared at the man. He looked terrified. "Director, I've never operated on someone by myself."

"You've spent years watching your father."

"Yes, but-"

He cut me off. "Then you should know what to do."

I looked towards the door. "Could I wait until he finishes?"

Director Choi stepped closer. "No." His voice was quiet, but I immediately stopped talking. "Listen carefully, Lena. If you refuse an order from the state, you're a traitor." He paused. "And you know what happens to traitors."

I did. I'd seen enough of them brought into the hospital. My hands went cold. "Yes, Director."

"Good."

One of the guards pushed the man towards the operating table. According to Director Choi, he'd been caught trying to escape across the river with forged documents. That was his crime. Trying to leave.

The man looked at me as they forced him onto the table. "Please," he whispered.

I couldn't answer. A guard pulled a bayonet from his side. Before I could understand what he was doing, he drove it into the man's upper abdomen. The man screamed. I jumped backwards.

Blood immediately began soaking through his shirt.

The guard pulled the weapon away and stepped aside.

Director Choi looked at me. "Fix it."

I stared at him. He'd injured the man on purpose. Just so I could operate.

"Well?" he asked. I couldn't move."Get started, Lena." He ordered.

The guards strapped the man to the table. We didn't have anaesthesia for people like him. That was reserved for government officials and other important patients.

I looked at the tray of instruments. The scalpels were old, the forceps were scratched, and there were only a few clean supplies left.

I'd watched Dad perform surgery hundreds of times. I knew what the instruments were called. I knew where the major organs were. I knew what had to be done. But I'd never been the one holding the scalpel.

I washed my hands as thoroughly as I could and put on a mask. My fingers were shaking so badly that I struggled to tie it.

"Stop wasting time," Director Choi said.

I picked up the scalpel. The man was watching me. "Please save me," he whispered. I looked at his face for a moment. Then I lowered my eyes to the wound. And made my first incision.

I was eleven years old. I shouldn't have been holding a scalpel, let alone operating on a man who'd been stabbed just so I could practise. But there I was.

I tried to remember everything Dad had taught me. I worked carefully, controlling the bleeding and checking the damage. The man cried out whenever I touched him. His body kept moving against the restraints. More than once, I thought I was going to lose him. But I kept going.

I don't remember how long the operation took. I only remember how badly my hands hurt when I finally placed the last suture.

Director Choi stepped forward and examined my work. He didn't say anything for a while. Then he nodded. "Acceptable." That was it. He turned around and left.

The guards removed the man's restraints and took him away. I didn't know what happened to him after that. I stood beside the operating table, staring at the blood covering my gloves. For the first time in my life, I didn't want to be in an operating room.

That night, I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the man's face. I could still hear him begging me to save him. And I kept hearing Director Choi's words. If you refuse, you're a traitor.

I never told Dad exactly what happened that night. I wanted to. But I was scared. And after a while, it didn't matter anymore. Because Director Choi kept bringing me more patients.

One became two. Two became five. Soon, I was operating several times a week. Some patients arrived with stab wounds. Others had been badly beaten or injured during questioning.

There were even times when the guards deliberately hurt them because Director Choi wanted me to practise a particular procedure. I learned not to ask questions. I learned not to look at the guards. And eventually, I learned not to look at my patients' faces for too long.

The first few times, my hands shook. By the tenth operation, they didn't. I simply washed my hands, picked up my instruments, and got to work.

We didn't have the equipment I'd read about in Dad's medical books. In other countries, hospitals had bright operating theatres, clean gowns, fresh gloves, and machines that could keep patients alive during difficult operations. I used to stare at the pictures. Everything looked so clean. So organised.

Our operating room had one yellow light hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes it flickered. Sometimes it stopped working completely. The electricity went out so often that I stopped being surprised when it happened.

At first, I'd panic whenever the room went dark. "Get the light!" I'd shout. Someone would bring in a candle or a small torch if we had one. Other times, there was nothing. I had to learn how to keep working with whatever light was available.

Eventually, I became familiar with the human body in a way I couldn't explain. I knew where things were without needing to look at every movement. I could recognise structures by touch and remember exactly where I'd placed my instruments. It wasn't something I learned overnight. It took years.

Years of operating in rooms that were too dark, with equipment that should've been thrown away long before I was born. Our instruments were blunt from being used so many times. Some scissors barely cut. The handles of our forceps were scratched, and several clamps didn't close properly.

We cleaned and reused whatever we had. Fresh gloves were rare. Proper antiseptic was even rarer. There was a bottle of iodine kept in a locked cupboard. We weren't allowed to use it unless the patient was someone important. Even ordinary painkillers were difficult to get.

Dad kept a small tin of tablets beneath his desk. He counted them regularly because he couldn't afford to lose any. My patients never received them. If they were lucky, they'd get a little water before their operation. That was all.

Dad continued working in the main operating theatre.

His patients were generals, ministers, Party officials, and occasionally people connected to the Leader himself. They arrived in expensive cars with guards standing on either side. Those patients received proper medication. They had clean operating rooms, working equipment, and as much attention as they needed.

I worked in the smaller rooms. My patients were the people nobody cared about. The ones who had already been sentenced. To the guards, they weren't even people anymore. They were test subjects. And I was the little girl learning how to operate on them.

As I got older, Director Choi started giving me more difficult cases. By fourteen, I could perform procedures that most people wouldn't have expected someone my age to understand.

I'd operated on the abdomen, repaired damaged blood vessels, treated serious injuries, and assisted with operations involving the chest. I'd also started learning how to perform autopsies.

Whenever there were no patients, I'd study the bodies brought into the hospital. I wanted to know everything. Every organ. Every artery. Every nerve.

I wanted to understand what happened inside the body when something went wrong, and how to fix it. Sometimes I'd spend hours studying before Dad finally came to find me. "Lena, it's late."

"Five more minutes."

"You said that an hour ago."

"I'm nearly finished."

He'd sigh. Then he'd leave me alone for another few minutes. I think he knew there was no point arguing.

Once I started something, I hated stopping halfway through. The more surgery I performed, the better I became.

I could watch Dad do something once and remember it. The next time I saw the same problem, I already knew what to do. Of course, I still made mistakes. Sometimes I was too slow. Sometimes I struggled to control the bleeding. And sometimes, no matter what I did, the patient died. I couldn't save everyone. But I remembered every single one.

I started keeping a notebook. For every patient who survived, I drew a blue line. For every patient who died, I drew a red one. I didn't write their names. Most of the time, I never knew them.

I just kept counting. Blue. Red. Red. Blue.

It became something I did after every operation. I didn't care what the guards did with them afterwards. I only cared whether they were alive when they left my table.

I'd spent so much time surrounded by death that it no longer shocked me. Blood didn't make me feel sick. The sound of someone screaming didn't make my hands shake.

Sometimes, I'd finish operating and immediately ask when the next patient was coming. I was becoming good at something I should never have been doing in the first place.

And the worst part? I enjoyed it. Not the screaming. Not what the guards did to those people. I hated that.

But the surgery itself? I loved it. I loved figuring out what was wrong. I loved the feeling of holding an instrument and knowing exactly what I needed to do.

I loved watching a body respond to something I'd repaired.

Every successful operation made me want to do another. I didn't know what to call that feeling back then. I just knew that whenever I wasn't operating, I was thinking about it.

By sixteen, I was working alongside Dad more often. Director Choi had started allowing me into the main operating theatre as his first assistant.

It was completely different from the rooms I normally worked in. The lights actually worked. There were clean surgical gowns, fresh gloves, and instruments sharp enough to cut without much pressure. We had proper anaesthesia. There were nurses to help us.

I remember the first time I walked into that theatre. I couldn't believe how much equipment they had. Some of it was equipment I'd only ever seen in textbooks. I almost laughed.

All those years I'd spent struggling with blunt scissors and flickering lights, and this entire time, there was a perfectly good operating theatre down the hallway. But I didn't say anything. I knew better.

One evening, Dad and I had just finished a long operation. The patient was an important government official who'd needed abdominal surgery. Dad was speaking to the nurses while I removed my gloves. "Good work today," he said.

I smiled. "Thank you."

"Go and get something to eat. You've been standing for hours."

"I'm not hungry."

"Lena. At least drink some water."

"Fine."

I left the main theatre and headed towards the smaller operating room where I usually worked.

My legs were aching, and I was tired enough that I wanted to sit down for a few minutes. I barely pulled out a chair when the door opened.

Director Choi stepped inside. Two guards followed him. Between them was a woman.

At first, I didn't pay much attention. I assumed it was another test subject. Then the woman lifted her head.

I froze. "Ga-hee?"